It's the thought that counts was one of the mottos Dennis lived by.  Since all of the best laid plans were bound to ignite and smolder away into a pile of smoking ash, one had to depend on thoughts to get them somewhere.  Or, in Dennis' current case, those plans shriveled into a baking dish filled with the blackened, glue-like layers of pasta and sauce and cheese and other things.  None of which remotely resembled anything edible. 

Tilly hadn't returned home, yet, though if the clock above the fireplace was correct her key would be grating against the lock any time now.  Three duffle bags containing the majority of Dennis' belongs were scattered around the apartment - the product of the last two days of cleaning and packing the things at his old flat.  One bag hadn't made it far past the front door.   It was dumped, haphazardly against the wall.  A second had managed to make it into the dining room where it had landed in the middle of the floor with no apparent rhyme or reason to its resting place.  The third - the smallest - had made it to the bedroom, though it had been tossed just as carelessly against a back corner.  Right next to a battered, well-stickered guitar case which had been, in stark contrast, propped carefully against the corner. 

Dennis hadn't had much to do that day, beyond sort through his things.  In a couple weeks, the band was scheduled to start recording their next album.  Until then, aside from a few scattered gigs, his time was free.  It had seemed only appropriate that he try to attempt cooking dinner.  Especially considering his things' current invasion of her apartment.  Cooking was something he almost never did when living on his own.  That, after all, was what the Leaky Cauldron was for. 

His mother had gladly faxed the lasagna recipe to a print shop in close vicinity of the alley.  It wasn't humanly possible for her to be more pleased that Dennis seemed to, finally, be settling with one woman for more than three days in a row.  And, she'd met Tilly on a number of occasions and was quite pleased with Dennis' choice.  Dennis hadn't told them about their pending launch into grandparent-hood.  He figured that was a conversation best left until he - or, ideally, they saw them in person, again. 

Which was all irrelevant and beyond the point.  Amelia Creevey had reassured her second born that lasagna was easy - fool proof, even.  Apparently, her son was far more incompetent in a kitchen than she gave him credit for.  Dennis only hoped that Tilly wouldn't notice the charred pan of blackened lasagna in the rubbage bin.  Nor the stench of burnt cheese that filled the apartment, despite the opened windows that allowed every breadth of cold, November air into the apartment.  Or the distinctly just-plopped-from-the-paper box molded shape of the chinese take out in the three bowls.  The stir fried veggies had been easier to unmold - the rice seemed to be defiantly holding onto the molded shape to the bitter end. 

Between Louis Armstrong's trumpet solo singing from the speakers in the corner and his own accompanying whistle, Dennis hadn't heard the door click open nor the footsteps moving through the front hall.  No, his attention was split between the music and his futile attempts to unmold the tower of takeout-carton-shaped rice.

Tilly had had fun that morning, playing a game of treasure map with Dennis’ belongings. The bags were like the Easter eggs her parents used to hide around the house, although she was more prone to finding shirts that smelled like Dennis, or expensive bottles from fans instead of chocolate.

But when she came through the door, the strange, mingled delight of something Italian and something Asian-- more distinctly, the tickling scent of noodles from her favorite takeout-- more than surprised her. He’d made dinner? Or... something like that.

Of course, she’d figured something was going on. At the very least, he was home and awake, for the muffled song sneaking into the corridor greeted her ears like an old friend.

“Mmmm, do I smell stir fry with a side of mozzarella?” She teased, floating into the apartment and setting down her things. She pushed back a few strands of hair and grinned, moving closer to the dining room. The chilly autumn air crept in through the windows, complimenting the music and lazy array of both their belongings.

It had been strange, how quickly this had felt right.

Not that she hadn’t spent days upon days in Dennis’ company before, but they hadn’t exactly shared a bed in the past... not without pajamas anyway. And he had never made dinner like this. It was cozy, romantic... like a little family.

She moved up behind Dennis, not mentioning the artistic shape of the rice (which she happened to know by heart, having lived a stone’s throw from the little restaurant for nearly ten years). “I’m starving,” she said putting her arms around his lean middle, her cotton cardigan pressing into his shirt. “I could eat the whole house. Building, even. Do you think they’d up my rent?”

Plucking a saucy chopstick from atop the stir fry, she put it in her mouth like a candy cane and wandered toward the kitchen with a satisfying mmm. She couldn’t wait to sit down, eat, enjoy the music and the company. Perhaps talk about the future, as they’d done lounging around backstage or in pub corners as teenagers. Only this time it was a little more solid a future, a little bit closer.

“What do you want to drink?” She asked, her voice raising as she slipped into the small kitchen. Her eyes found the rubbish bin and tried to cover her laugh with a cough. That explained the dash of Mediterranean cuisine she’d suspected earlier. She might have done marginally better, if only for the homely sewing-and-cooking classes she'd been forced to take at the all-girl's muggle school. She could make a mean pineapple cake. Mostly because the idea of pineapple with cake was too good not to learn. Even better in cupcake form. But Matilda Quinn had never been Betty Crocker, and she enjoyed The Broomsticks or The Leaky as much as any of the guys. “What have you been doing all day?” She added innocently, opening the fridge. She knew his schedule was far from a nine-to-five. “Have you seen Corby or Trina or the rest of the lot?”

Whoever had branded sticky rice with its name had done a bang-up great job; it sure fit the stuff.  It was an easy scapegoat for the difficulty Dennis was having with forcing the rice into a non-cubicle shape.  He'd been trying, unsuccessfully, to fling the latest clump of rice off the spoon when Tilly's voice drifted from the front hallway into the dining room. 

"It's the new specialty," Dennis called back, without missing a beat.  So, she smelled the Italian-infused air in the apartment.  That didn't mean he had to admit to his blunder so easily.  He could continue to feign innocence.  His voice acquired a nice, bright ring to it, betraying his amused smirk even if she wasn't able to see it.  "Orange Chicken Parmesan - they gave me a free sample.  Which, I can never turn down anything free.  So..." 
 
He chuckled, as much to himself as to his work-weary roommate as himself.  Finally submitting to the inevitable, Dennis sunk the back of spoon into the center of the mound of rice, shoving the bowl to the center of the table in a unceremonious declaration of dinner being served. 

Soft footsteps padded closer behind him.  Like a soft, comforting blanket, the warmth of her body leaned against his back and Dennis inhaled deeply as Tilly's arms encircled him.  He leaned gently back against her, his fingers tracing gently down one of her encircling arms in a backwards embrace. 

"Have you seen the flat below us?"  Dennis asked.  Granted, he was far from a neat nick - Tilly was, certainly, well aware of the less the pristine conditions of most of his mates' flats.  Luckily, his own flat usually remained rather clean - though that had to do more with how little time he spent home rather than any particular effort on his part.  Which was all neither here nor there nor did it have anything to do with the point he was trying to make.  "You may want to take a peak at their kitchen before offering to devour it.  They've got some funky looking green things growing in there." 

The toasted lasagna long forgotten, Dennis lowered himself in a chair and dished a hearty mound of rice onto a plate.  "Is there any of that IPA left?" Dennis called back.  "If not, whatever beer's there will work." 

Some stir-fried veggies and some mongolian beef joined the rice on his plate and he shuffled a pair of chopsticks between his fingers.  "Went over to my place about one; cleaned out the closet.  I swear, I think crap reproduces when we aren't looking.  Didn't get far, though."  Actually, what they'd managed to extricate from the closet had taken up all of one bag of trash and one of the three duffles currently scattered around the apartment. 

"Yeah - Corby came over.  Thought he'd be helpful, but you know how it goes."  Productivity and Corby and Dennis in the same place were rarely two phenomenons that could coexist.  A six pack was really probably the only task they could take seriously together.  And, other booze, of course.  Which, Corby had brought with him.  "We actually got a fair bit done until Corby came across a box of old lyrics from back when.  He was useless after that."  As was Dennis. 

"Should be done by Friday, though.  If I can find something to distract Corby with."

“Orange Chicken Parmesan,” she echoed thoughtfully. She’d try anything once. But the trail of breadcrumbs-- or the scent of a charred meal-- suggested that the dear old takeaway standby hadn’t, in fact, changed their decade’s old menu. “And you didn’t save me any?” She quirked a brow. “You know we have weird cravings,” she went on, speaking of pregnant women in general. Not that Tilly was quite far enough along to be eating house and home. But she was getting there. And she was hungry.
 
“I’ll have a look next time they ask me to water that plant beside their door,” she promised. “Which is fake, by the way.” A weird lot, those downstairs neighbors. Nevermind that a real plant couldn’t survive long in a corridor. But no one would dream of stealing their faux snapping soybean plant. “So whatever they’re growing, it isn’t edamame.” She smiled, pressing her head into his back, and nudged him before shuffling off to the kitchen.

“Mmhmm...” Tilly reached into the depths of the fridge and balanced a few things in her arms. The IPA for Dennis, and a bottled tea for herself. The best accompaniments to takeout, clearly.

Bringing it into the dining room, and not bothering with glasses-- why dirty more dishes?-- she set them on the table and slumped gracefully-ish into her chair.

She pinched a piece of Orange Chicken (minus the adventurous infusion of Italian), and popped it into her mouth before actually using a the chopsticks to properly scoop a few things onto her plate. It was just too good to resist, sitting there like that, teasing her. It was a good thing Dennis knew that food was the other way to her heart. Behind music. (And, perhaps, timely newspaper articles.)

“Yes, and little green men in suits thieve your valuables and return them once they’ve gone to rubbish. All in one big pile for you to sort.” She winked and welcomed the warm, sticky rice. Chewing with a thoughtful expression, she mused over the idea of Corby and Dennis trying to clean and organize... well, anything. Tilly was no drill sergeant, but she could manage boxes of records in a crunch. Usually when all the fun business had already been done. And now she was going to induct Jacoba.

“If you need help, you know, I think I know my way around pretty well.” She knew her way around Dennis, anyway. She’d analyzed his habits at times, simply out of instinct. “I could at least make you a map.” She was good at that... always doodling and handing out maps.

Perking up a bit, she raised her brows animatedly. “What lyrics?” She asked, tilting her head, chopsticks poised for action. “From when you first started? I have to see these.”

She’d always liked to have a peak when she could manage. She’d never intentionally gone behind his back to see what he was working on, however. But when he didn’t seem to mind, she look over whatever he was working on.

“Distracting Corby,” she laughed. “That’s grand. Good luck. But actually, if you think he could paint without putting hardcore holes through the ceiling, I think we should give that other room a good new coat,” she said, sounding innocent enough. She gestured vaguely to the room that served as giant-closet-slash-library-slash-extra-records-that-didn’t-fit-nicely-into-the-living-room-slash-twin-bed-accommodations-for-unexpected-guest(s). “We’ll... well, we’ll need it soon, won’t we?”

She continued to indulge in the chicken, and then added. “Or we could go with the standard. There’s this new girl I’m hiring, I think they’d get on brilliantly. She was in the papers recently... just like someone else we know.”

Digging into her pocket, she pulled out the newspaper clipping she’d been given. One of her employees had seen it and saved it for her. Tilly hadn’t read the paper regularly since its indelicate handling of Lukas’ fake death, and so she’d been mildly surprised to see Dennis featured prominently in a Thursby article. Though not shocked. He was, after all, young, talented, good-looking, and famous.

Unfolding the article, she held it out to him like a letter from a teacher. She smiled playfully.

Actually, when one gave it thought, orange parmesan chicken didn't sound that appetizing.  Thankfully, for everyone involved, the peculiar concoction was nothing more than a cover story for a failed pan of lasagna.  "They were just samples," Dennis offered in his own defense when asked why he hadn't saved Tilly any, without skipping a beat.  "Really, the ginger and the parmesan were a bad combination - be grateful I didn't save any."  Though, Corby kept warning Dennis that strange cravings came with the incubating woman - for all he knew that combination might sound appetizing. 

Dennis chuckled at the news of the neighbors fake plants, nodding his head.  They'd actually managed to discover that when his mate went to sniff the bloody thing.  It certainly smelled less than real. 

"Thanks," he offered, taking the cold, bitter brew from Tilly and swallowing a mouthful before setting the bottle on the table.  Perhaps, if Dennis was more prone to introspection when the goal wasn't songwriting, he might have been more aware that this was the fourth night in as many nights that Dennis had sat down at a table to have a meal with the same person.  Consistency had managed to slip from Dennis' life about the time he'd found himself on the run and it never seemed to be able to find its way back.

Dennis glanced up from his bowl, eying Tilly with an amused smirk before shaking his head, his mop of blond hair flopping in the process.  "You would," he admitted, thoroughly amused by the notion of Tilly drawing him a map of his own flat.  She probably did know the place better than he.  It was entirely likely she'd been there just as much as he had and she was more likely to be sober as well.  "Well, if you can draw me a map to where I stashed my spare guitar strings and picks, I'd probably take you up on that offer."  That would be lovely.  He had no clue where they were. Or even whose apartment they were in. 

"They're old lyrics from when we were on the move."  On the run.  "Colin and I had tossed together a few songs that weren't Potterwatch material."  They'd been less anti-Voldemort and more ... normal.   Love songs, ballads, casual tunes.  Less like the result of being on the run from violent persecution and more like a band would typically write and play.  Though most of them had some casual political undertones - they'd been avoidable during those days - but nothing like most of their protest material.  In other words, they were more what Three Owl morphed into after the war.  "I'd totally forgotten about them.  They were tucked away in an old bag."  He nodded, pointing to the far wall beyond which the smaller duffle lay tossed in the corner next to the guitar case.  "They're in there in a folder.  Yeah, you can see them." 

"The other room?"  Dennis looked up, his mind quickly catching up with her drift.  They would need the other room for a crib.  That a baby would sleep in.  And grow up in.  There would be a small human dependent on them in that room.   A room they needed to paint.

Subject change needed.

"New girl?  She was in the paper?  You didn't hire Gisella, did you?" he asked, surprised, suspicious and confused at the same time.  Not that it made sense - Gisella didn't need to work in record shops.  No matter how cool the record shop was.  Speaking of which ... Dennis shifted uncomfortably.  Perhaps he should have said something to her.  Most of Dennis' exes were very much in the one-night-stand category and notification through the Daily Prophet was sufficient.  Gisella, however, probably would have warranted an in person notification.  Oh well.  "Is she one of those Three Owlets trying to get close to the honorary owl?  I'm sure you'll see more..." 

His words trailed off as he glanced down at the article.  He knew it was coming out at some point - reporters like Thursby didn't just sit on interviews - but it was still strange to see it in print.  Quickly, though, his eyes scanned the article quickly but he sighed with relief when he found Thursby had stuck to her word and hadn't printed anything about the question of marriage. 

"Lays an egg," Dennis chuckled as he read the title.  "I think Gisella would do very well on the Wizengemot.  They need some styling tips, anyway."  He glanced up from the page at Tilly hovering over her and smiled sheepishly.  "Did I forget to tell you about the interview?" he asked, trying to look remorseful.  He pushed his chair back from the table to face Tilly.  "So, guess the word is out."  She didn't look upset.  Not, at least, at first glance.  But, one could never tell with women.  "You told your parents, right?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.  His parents were relatively safe from learning their son was approaching fatherhood from the wizarding newspaper.  Her parents, however, were more likely to read the Daily Prophet. 

His grin grew broader as he looked up at Tilly.  "Welcome to the media spotlight," he said, setting down his chopsticks and reaching out for Tilly.

Shrugging it off, assuming there would be many a strange food samples and discarded dishes to discuss in the future-- unless Dennis decided to enroll in one of those cooking boot camps a la muggle reality television-- Tilly let the Orange Chicken Parmesan rest peacefully in its imaginary grave. And watered it thoroughly with the refreshments she’d set down on the table.

“Close your eyes!” She demanded jovially, and then skipped over to the front door, fishing around in a an array of colorful jars that held ‘emergency’ knuts, spare keys to Merlin knew what, address cards, receipts, and fortune cookie fortunes.

After a moment of this blind expedition, Tilly emerged triumphant. Pulling her hand out of a terracotta pot, she held up several picks. Grinning she floated back to Dennis for the third time that evening, and splayed the guitar picks on the table.

“I might have borrowed your jacket,” she confessed apologetically. “Looks like you left them on the inside pocket. I was nearly impaled by it when was rearranging the shelves at work yesterday.”

As for the mystery strings...

Tilly frowned and sat down again, looking every bit the picture of concentration. “We’ll find the spares,” she promised. “And if not, I will draw that map.” To... a magical dead end. But it would be a fun adventure, nonetheless.

After another delectable bite of the Food of the Carryout Gods, Tilly followed his gaze to the bag. Not wanting to get up again, she looked at him pointedly, but amused. “I’ve left my wand somewhere...” On a diary page circa Tilly aged five. “Mind giving those a quick summon?” She gestured with a flick of her jawline toward the hidden lyrics.

He seemed to gloss over the more important issue at hand, their impending life form, a little bundle of genetic Creeveyness. Which meant he was in perfect Dennis Working Order.

Leaving the baby for dessert (though not in the literal sense, obviously), she mused over the idea of hiring Gisella. “No, not unless she ditched her haute couture ‘round the corner and decided to be an unassuming but spunky German girl for a day.” Gisella Darcy and labor seemed a stretch, unless it was dancing. Not that Tilly had anything against her best-friend-turned-lover’s ex... friend with benefits? She’d never really pegged down that story.

“Not an owlet, but I’ll keep my eyes open. If I have to start wearing armor to work,” she warned, raising a brow and tilting her head down to eye him. “You’re waking up bright and early every morning to Apparate me there.” A mere two hours after bedtime? Not a chance. “You and your fan club...” She shook her head slowly, but her smile was proud.

Forgotten to tell her? Something like that. “You’d forget your shadow if it weren’t attached to you.” Spoken like a true squib.

“I told them the morning after I told you,” she confirmed. “Mum was thrilled, but shocked. Dad wondered why it had taken you so long...”

Setting down her own chopsticks she leaned toward him, biting her lip as she smiled. She grabbed his hands, but then pulled herself closer, steadying her balance as she clasped his shoulders. Hovering over his chair for a moment, having shuffled over his lap with her feet on either side, she looked down at him. “Welcome to your new home,” she murmured in reply, tapping him on the nose before sitting down in his lap and kissing the corner of his mouth. Her hands smoothed down the front of his shirt, clutching it just barely in gentle fists. “So about that room, what color do you think we should do?”

A stalk of juicy, saucy broccoli had just found it's way into Dennis mouth when he was given the directive to close his eyes.  Smirking playfully, he closed his eyes, his fork missing his dish as he set it down blindly.  (Chopsticks were good and authentic but the really did slow down the food delivery process)  "Alright - got em closed." 

Class and metal clinked as Tilly rummaged through something near the door.  If Dennis were one to pay attention to his surroundings, or anything for that matter, he might have remembered the jars by the door.  But, he was dutifully and fully in the dark as to her activities until with a warmth (and an alluring waft of Tillyness) she moved next to him. 

"My jacket?  Which one," he asked, opening his eyes to discover the collection of picks on the table.  "Fantastic!" he quickly declared.  "I - there's my silver one."  He gave Tilly's kiss an appreciative peck before plucking the pick off the table and strumming it silently across his fingers, humming. 

He could cross that off the shopping list.  The spare strings would turn up at some point. Or not.  He'd just buy more. 

Dennis watched, a goof grin on his face as Tilly ate a morsel of the take out.  But, his gaze followed hers towards the door to the other room before looking back.  There were so many things he'd always marveled about Matilda.  Her sense of humor and ability to take life with a heavy dose of amusement was one of them.  He'd always been impressed that she could approach being a squib with such amusement. 

He wasn't exactly much of a wizard, himself.  He could do magic, of course.  But, out of the seven years most kids spent at Hogwarts, he'd spent four.  And, the last one had been a joke.  He'd tested out of his OWLs at a third year level - that had been the last year that had been normal.  He'd picked up somethings here and there since then but the war had left him slightly disillusioned.  He didn't avoid magic, but he wasn't one of those with his wand in his hand all day.  With a nod and a grin, he tugged his wand out of his back pocket and, with a murmured incantation, brought the pages to him. 

There was a moment's hesitation.  Nothing profound, just the pause worthy of making public (it was still Tilly) writings that had lain hidden for a decade.  "Missy's Ghost is the first one I want to give a whirl," he said, as casually as if he were discussing the latest album.  Which he might very well be.  He chewed another bite, clearing his mouth before testing out a tune, somewhat under his breath. 
"The curtains fluttered just as they had that night. 
The door swung closed, and like a flash of lightening,
her memory flared in a violent flash of light. 
Did she know it was you, did she see you there?
A tear in her eye, the mist in her hair.
Can love be true when all she'll be
Is a cloud of mist."

"I don't think that'd happen," Dennis laughed.  The day Gisella left the crazy music scene was the day Dennis would stop drinking.  "She loves the lights too much."  And, her outfits would just end up being weird in a record shop.  More so than if they were found on stage.  "Spunky German girl?  Where'd she come from?"  Aside from the obvious.  Germany.  "Where'd you dig her up?  You think she'll work out?"  If she was, indeed, spunky then chances were good she would.  Or, a purist prick.  "We should introduce her to Colby."

He smirked around his fork; the owlets were bound to come circling at some point.  Unless he'd misjudged their persistence.  Which he rarely did.  "Me and my fan club get along quite nicely, thank you."  He grinned warmly, his arms wrapping around his love as she settled herself in his lap. 

"And, what did you tell him?" Dennis asked, his hands tracing absentmindedly over Tilly's back.  The 'why did you take so long' was a good question but the more dangerous question was the one every bloke expected from the father of their knocked up girlfriend.  The one that had yet to surface between them - was she waiting for him to ask?  Oh good grief.  Now as not the time to panic!  "I haven't told my parents, yet."  He knew his father would ask that question. 

Her breath warmed the corner of his mouth with a touch of orange and ginger.  He became keenly aware of the hands that rested against his chest, thoughts of food and dinner (and holy matrimony) quickly flying from his head.  His mouth sought hers, a nonverbal thank you for the welcome.  After the brief embrace, he leaned back against the chair.

"I say, let's paint it white and then let the band have at it with different colors.  It'd be awesome."  And, negate any of the should it be blue or pink nonsense.  "Or - band stickers on the wall."  Or all of the above. 

“The one with the--” Tilly animatedly mimed a high collar of a suave leather jacket. She supposed that described roughly half of Dennis’ jackets, what with him being a rockstar and all. Rolling her eyes at herself, she laughed and pointed toward the coat hanger by the door, upon which several garments hung. “The black one.” Again, it was too much of a generalization.

Plopping down, she gladly watched him in his own element; certainly it wasn’t the sort of overzealous, dancey miming of Matilda, but the strumming of an invisible guitar-- his hands-- made her smile.

When the old lyrics had been magicked in their direction by a wave of Dennis’ wand, the young woman was content to curl up and peruse the old sheets. But her bluish green eyes had barely registered the decade-old handwriting before they swept back up to Dennis’ face, studying his lips as he whisper-sang the song. It was lovely, and the gentle wind tickling the linen drapes made it even lovelier.

“And that,” she announced, keeping her voice low, “Is why people are going to come after me with pitchforks.” Wands? Who needed wands? Giant kitchen utensils would get the job done. She tapped his handsome jawline lightly, but with vindication.

“I love it,” she added. “You should do a solo record one of these days. Just you and your guitar,” she encouraged. Not that she didn’t adore the band. She did, very much. They were like brothers to her, and Trina actually was family. But there was something shy in Dennis’ talent, and winsome quality that Tilly had always loved, and felt lucky for being privy to hear it while holed up in small flats or pub corners or rooms backstage. She thought the world should hear it. And yet, there was a private pride in being one of the few to hear him.

As for Gisella...

Well, she could keep selling out her arenas if that’s what suited her.

Tilly liked life just the way it was, with her new muggle friend helping out at the shop.

“Jacoba?” Tilly shrugged. “All over, it sounds like. Originally from Germany, but her family moved here, and then she was sent back for school. Something about an evil father...” Tilly trailed off, frowning a bit. She was lucky to have the relationship she had with her own parents. “She’s done a lot of traveling, but she’s back here now because she’s just found out her little brother’s a wizard. The rest of the family are muggles.” Including Jacoba. “The way she talks about Amsterdam, I think we need to go on holiday.” She winked. “After the...” Tilly looked downward, patting her abdomen with both palms.

“But, yeah, we met on Halloween, and she’s completely brilliant. They’d get along great.”

Nuzzling into his neck, she laughed, imagining the fan club nodding in robotic unison, hanging on to Dennis’ every word.

As for her parents, they liked Dennis very much, were slightly less mystified than his fangirls. They were quite pleased for the young couple, thrilled at the prospect of grandparentdom. But her mum had voiced a few worry or two, and her dad’s face had mirrored the sentiments: Didn’t Tilly think she was ‘a bit too young’ and ‘slightly unprepared’? She was, after all, now improvising family life with her best-friend-turned-rock-star-turned-one-night-stand-turned-future-baby-daddy-turned-lover. Mrs. Quinn had teased that all of the baby’s ‘firsts’ (first word, first walk, first haircut, and such things) would happen in recording booths or hotels. Or pubs. Tilly’d simply laughed, and pointed out how they, her parents, had managed just fine with their own little life in the post office, and that she and Dennis would figure things out for themselves.

“The truth,” she laughed. “That we got a bit wrecked and you knocked me up, and I waited until Halloween to tell you the good news.” Her arms still around his neck, she pulled back a moment to study face. She grinned. “Kidding.”

“I just said... we fell for each other, and things just happened like they were always meant to.” Which was also the truth.

Content to kiss him back, Tilly waited for breath before she pressed for questions. “When are you going to tell them?” She asked casually, as if Dennis had made a check list of sorts. A plan. As if either of them were superb with schedules. “We should have them over,” she encouraged. “Or go and visit. Don’t you think?” She raised a brow, looking at him longingly.

Settling more relaxed in the seat-built-for-one, she gazed in the direction of the empty room. White. Fresh. A new start. And rock ‘n roll. “I love it,” she said immediately, twirling a bit of hair. “We could put up records, too. And crazy, psychedelic owls. And an old rocking chair by the window! One of those proper, ancient ones that creak when you rock.”

One eyebrow quirked up in un-abashed amusement as the woman on his lap started gesturing something around her neck.  Granted, Tilly was quite good with her hands and Dennis did have some idea what she was going on about.  But, helping her wouldn't be nearly as fun, would it?  "Dog cone collar?"  He asked, almost pulling off full seriousness if it weren't for the quiver at the corners of his mouth.  "Stuffed ferret," he added, picking at a stray piece of broccoli from a molar as he continued to watch her dance, 'guessing' at what she was cherading.  And fully enjoying every moment of it. 

"Oh - yes!  I know exactly the one.  The tacky Dracula cape!" he finally declared knowing full well no such thing existed in his wardrobe. 

He leaned forward, peering over the crook of Tilly's, his eyes following along with her progress as she made her way through the stack of lyrics as he murmured along to the song forming in his head.  A handful of the pages had chords penciled in in the margins.  A few had notes on ideal guitar riffs.  One or two had notes penned in the margins, the ink far too fresh and bright to be a decade old - those had been the few stray notes Dennis had scribbled since finding them.  One had a dull smear of something that had once been bright red.  Perhaps a drop of catsup from a creative-juice extracting bag of chips.  Or, something more sinister.  It was impossible to tell after all those years. 

"I'll make sure their sharp," he added almost off-handedly as he leaned back against the back of his chair.  "It's the least I can do, given everything.  You're far too fantastic and sexy to be marred with dull pitchforks." 

Her suggestion was, apparently, her choice of revenge.  Dennis snorted lightly, obviously finding the idea of a solo album preposterous and picking up a saucy piece of beef with his fingers.  "We've got Trina, now.  She's the vocals."  A slightly sore point for Dennis if he was being truthful.  He liked Trina - really, he did.  She was a nice lady and a great singer.  But, taking her on had been their manager's decision.  He'd hoped bringing a girl into the band would increase their popularity.  Which, it had.  But - it was hard to explain.  It wasn't even Trina's fault.  But, their manager had decided this was the best direction for the band to go.  Whether Tilly was aware of those complications, Dennis didn't know.  Nor was he really wanting to be the one to enlighten her - Tilly and Trina were family. 

"Wow - Germany.  That must be fun.  The muggle sister of a muggleborn Hogwarts student is working at your shop in Diagon?"  He was surprised - though he couldn't exactly identify why.  There was no doubt Dennis was the furthest thing from a purist of any sort.  He could hang with muggles or squibs (obviously) or wizards without much thought to their magical status.  Her being a muggle had nothing to do with the surprise and as he came to realize that, he had to admit he was kind of impressed.  "That takes guts," he admitted.  "Look at Reducto, breaking all the social norms.  I love it!"  He finally concluded, grinning broadly.  Those purists could take their stupidity and shove it where a ghost couldn't find it. 

Despite her laughs, Dennis had taken her answer seriously at first and a feeling of dread bubbled up.  Bloody Merlin, Tilly's father must hate him.  What father wanted to hear their daughter was knocked up while drunk by an equally drunk rock star?  The sheer disbelief and oh-my-lord-you-didn't was carved straight across those wide-open eyes when she leaned back to study his face.  "You vixen!" He breathed in relief when she finally fessed up to the joke.  "I'm - you trying to give me a heart attack?"  While true, what she told him seemed far less wrought with angry-protective-father possibilities. 

"I figured I'd write a song for the next album.  If we thought my folks should know sooner, I could always put out a single."  Of course, playful revenge was always justified.  "I guess I - we should tell them soon.  It's probably better they didn't learn from the newspaper.  Or reporters.  It'd be good for them to visit, too.  I know Diagon isn't their favorite place to visit but if they're going to have a grandkid in the picture here, they'll need to get back into the habit." 

He knew the questions his parents would pose.  His mother was guaranteed to ask the about the big "M."  Dennis was sure she wouldn't consider the notion of a grandchild born out of wedlock.  They may have a rockstar son but they were still good Irish folks.  Also, Dennis knew they'd likely ask what the chances were the child would be born with magical capabilities.  A question Dennis didn't know they answer too.  He'd had no desire to study blood status genetics in any way shape or form.  He'd never figured it'd be information he needed.  Tilly was, yes, a squib.  But, that also meant she was born to a pureblood family. 

Decidedly ignoring the first potential question, he rested his hands on her hips.  "I know one of the many questions they'll have is how likely is it the child will be magically capable?"  Most kids, as Dennis understood, of a muggle and a wizard inherited the magic.  In this case, could he or she inherit Tilly's magic-but-lack-of-magic?  "I mean - what are the chances they'll have another Hogwarts grad-" or not quite grad- "in the family." 

She laughed, only slightly flustered, at his attempts to put words to her miming game. Imagining Dennis decked out like Dracula, with a collar and a stuffed ferret under one arm, was a highlight of Tilly’s evening. She wondered vaguely if she could lure him into the trap of such a photo opportunity, if only to compliment her shabby and comfy living room couch with a Dennis the Vampire halo. “Don’t give me ideas,” she warned.

“Such a gentleman,” she replied, sighing contentedly. “I wouldn’t let you be assassinated in a subpar manner, either.” Obviously they were meant to be.

Tilly grinned softly, but was not discouraged in her efforts. “And she’s got a lovely voice,” she summed up. Trina was her cousin, and Tilly loved her very much, however briefly she’d had the pleasure of knowing her. But Trina’s lungs did not discount Dennis’ own talent. And seeing these forgotten lyrics, re-earthed and obviously inspiring to the man, Tilly thought the world deserved the chance to hear what he was hiding. “But so have you. And, if you could train yourself to wake up... hmm... an hour earlier, let’s say--” She grinned somewhat teasingly. “You could make time for a side project.” Where was the harm in that? Trina had had her own solo career, after all. “It’s your choice, of course,” she added. “But... I think it would be good for you.” He needed another outlet, especially now that he wasn’t on tour. Tilly worried after his drinking, even if they were spending more time together.

Sitting up a bit, she was glad to hear his string of compliments and approval. Worrying about the implications of such a staff-- what neighboring businesses might say, for example-- had not yet occurred to Tilly, not in full. It was almost as if the positive opinions of people like Dennis were keeping Jacoba safe, and nevermind what anyone else thought. Which was half true. Tilly couldn’t care less who complained, or who stopped coming to the shop. Most of those complainers had long sense stopped-- after all, the manager was a squib. That wasn’t far off from a muggle. And Tilly already adored Jacoba, and felt somewhat compelled to help her adjust to their world.

Trying to mask herself in innocence, Tilly broke down at the sight of his face. It was hilarious, but also heart-tugging. She revealed her joke in a matter of seconds, and delighted in his relief. She was one for honesty, but she would never have gone into such detail with her father. Besides, it wasn’t the full story, or the full picture. Everyone deserved a bit of after-examination. Things had turned out great in the end.

“You can’t have a heart attack at your age,” she pointed out, waving off the fear. “Well, almost... although maybe we should give your liver a breather once in a while.” She kept her tone lighthearted, however much she’d been fretting over balancing Dennis’... habits... and their impending responsibilities as parents. What a strange word. Parents. Tilly had never thought she’d be taking care of someone who wasn’t a full-grown man or another woman’s child.

Rolling her eyes, she closed them lightly and laughed into his shoulder, shaking her head against his shirt sleeve. “Right, and I’m the vixen...” Not that Dennis could be one, technically. But only technically. It was a minor hurdle. “I think they’ll get suspicious when they come ‘round to check on you and see my belly. If you’re not going to tell them...” She warned. “Well, there are other people who can.” Like Tilly. She was already mulling over the possible reactions.

Raising her head again, she tilted it pensively, considering his question. “Didn’t they teach you in school that magic is a dominate gene?” She asked, almost smirking. Technically, their child would be a half-blood, whatever Tilly’s own mysterious status. “I don’t think squibs often have squibs, even if they’re procreating with muggleborns. And your brother was a wizard,” she pointed out. Clearly there was a hidden string of magic in the Creevey clan, or else something in the water where they lived. “Do you think they’ll be mad if it isn’t? A wizard, I mean.” Or, perhaps, the other way around. “Would--” She paused, and considered her words carefully. It was a silly question. Stupid, even. Dennis was the last person to worry about in that sense. “Would you be disappointed?” She knew him too well to doubt him, but it was still a question she supposed she needed to ask. After all of the drama with her father’s own family, she really couldn’t help herself.

A sly, playful grin settled across the young man's features as he gazed into the face of the woman on his lap.  She might have been warning against giving her any ideas, but it didn't take long for his own mind to start running with that image.  Him in dark and forboding vampire robes, she in a slinky, lacy yet strangely still innocent little night dress.  He traced his fingers lightly down one of her arms, nodding his head, grinning goofily at the image.  "Of course not," he offered, innocently with a shake of his head.  "I wouldn't dream of such a thing." 

Dennis couldn't agree more about Trina's voice, of course.  Choosing the woman as their addition had been, artistically, smart.  Her voice was the type that could draw crowds.  Paired with their musical abilities and the songs Dennis and Corby crafted together, Three Owl had a lot of potential.  But, he half expected his dismissal to be the end of the conversation but he knew, by now, Tilly could be rather like a hound on a fox' trail when she got an idea.  Patiently, he nodded his head, still expecting her to work through her own recommendation and realize why it wouldn't work.  But, she didn't - in fact, the more she pondered it the more motivated she seemed by the idea.  An eyebrow arched incredulously at the recommendation of getting up an hour earlier before he chuckled. 

"You really think so?"  He asked though the notion still seemed a strange one, his usual dubious and never-takes-anything-seriously humor was notably absent from his voice.  "Would you sing harmony?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.  He'd asked the question almost as quickly as he'd thought of it, with little further consideration. 

As the idea simmered in his head, he found he loved the idea: Dennis as his squib girlfriend's record full of his brother's anti-purist songs being sold at Reducto by their muggle clerk.  Especially considering the few recent blood-status-motivated crimes, it seemed as good a time as any to return to those musical roots that had been planted in true rebellious rock star fashion.  They could even toss in a few muggle anti-institution hits: Fortunate Son or Blowing in the Wind or something of the nature.  And ... and if he could get a few key muggle musicians to join in on the ... well ... muggle appropriate tracks ... it could be fantastic! 

He was quickly liking the idea more and more.

"My liver?"  Dennis asked, that never-takes-anything-seriously humor already back in full force.  His mind had yet to connect the dots of drinking, parenthood and practicing responsibility.  Each of those items seemed to be content remaining isolated in their own little atmosphere.  "My liver says it's perfectly fine.  It just likes to store up reserves in case of any natural or magical disasters."  Actually, thinking of the word parent still had the effect of sending Dennis into a full, needs-a-paper-bag panic. 

His question seemed to have sparked some curiosity in his love - at least, he reasoned that was why she'd lifted her head from his shoulder to peer at him.  "Yeah, so?"  Yes, Hogwarts had taught them 'magic was the dominant gene.'  They had taught them those words.  If they taught them what that meant, Dennis had likely slept through that class.  Or, maybe they taught that their fourth year - though maybe not his fourth year.  'The Mendelian Inheritance Process of magical genes was probably not high on You-Know-Who's academic priority list.  "So you think he'll - or she'll be magically capable?"  At least, that's what he thought she was saying though he did feel the need to verify.  He wasn't concerned, either way or the other - he was just, simply, curious. 

"Mad?" Dennis repeated, shaking his head as he glanced at Tilly after fishing a piece of beef from his plate with his fingers.  "And, me?  Disappointed?  Of course not.  I'd be happy if he was and I'd be happy if he wasn't."  I'd be scared shitless if he was but, yet, I'd be scared shitless if he wasn't, Dennis could have also admitted but, again, that wasn't expectant-mother-approved.  "But, I guess, how will we know?  I suppose, if he starts sending his sippy cups flying around the flat, it'll be obvious but ... if he doesn't, will we not know until he's eleven?"  Dennis knew the question had lingered for that long with Tilly, but was that typical?  "I think he should know both, anyway.  Both worlds.  I'd hate it if he thought we'd expected him to be magical and he's not."  He was fairly confident Tilly would agree. 

Tilly laughed. “My voice isn’t up to par with yours,” she pointed out. “Unless you’re going for that unintentional imperfection. How raw of you.” She winked, glowing with happiness. She loved that sort of album to bits, really. Though she was more keen to hear Dennis spin a solo. She kissed his cheek, lingering against it, wondering whether she’d swayed him. If only for her own selfish reasons. She was allowed to be selfish now that they were in a relationship, wasn’t she? She wanted to hear his voice; she wanted to see his potential unfold in front of her. But she didn’t want to pushy.

“Your liver is going to be in a museum when you’re dead,” she announced, shaking her head. It was only a mildly terrifying thought. Tilly didn’t mind not having a wand, but she was thankful that there were doctors with wands. And potions. And all kinds of magical medical wonders that could tend to fragile livers and other routinely abused rockstar organs. “What kind of disasters require an excess of alcohol in the bloodstream, by the way? Remind me...” She grinned, making light of the question. She knew most of her friends were as likely to stock up on whiskey during an astroid shower as they were canned foods and warm blankets. Tilly herself might have been right there with them if it weren’t for her current... healthy liver requirements.

“So,” she said, echoing him, emphasizing the word. “Unless you and I are one giant anomaly, we’re having a little wizard.” She winked, and then thought about chasing after a kid who, by the age of two or three, would be able to do more magic than she’d ever be able to do. It was strange to think about, really, as excited as she was.

Feeling somewhat silly for letting the words come out of her mouth, she quickly followed his lead, and reached for more deliciousness to occupy her. Her chopsticks held up like a pair of skinny wands, she was flooded with relief as she chewed, smiling close-mouthed, somewhat crookedly.

Of course he wasn’t mad.

Silly Tilly.

She giggled, shrugging. “That sounds about right. My dad made all the lights in the house go off and on over and over in the middle of the night while he was dreaming. He was four, I think.” And with magical lights, and no electricity, it was quite the wizardly accomplishment. “His parents were so pleased they weren’t even angry. And my mum...” She paused making a hmm noise. Swishing her lips to the side, she tried to recall. “I don’t remember. We’ll have to ask! Maybe ours will make the piano play itself.”

Which made her more curious...

“We’ll likely know way before then, yeah,” she hypothesized. “What about you? When did you find out? And Colin?” The name came out before she could stop herself. She’d been used to tiptoeing around it for years, but Dennis had opened up before. She supposed it was a light enough topic that she didn’t have to worry. She stroked the back of his neck and waited for an answer. She grinned. “I’d love that. Brooms and football, Wireless and iPods.” Two worlds with two equally rubbish newspapers.

"Your voice is just fine," Dennis said with a shake of his head.  Besides, Tilly knew as well as anyone that 'unintentional imperfection' was exactly how the Creevey lad rolled.  Raw suited him just fine; in fact, it could be easily construed as a compliment.  "This album's your idea," he pointed out, grinning playfully. "And, I think it's safe to say it's in its infantile stages enough to allow for such artistic choices."  Or, lack-of-forethought choices.  Really, planning albums had never been Three Owl Standard's way.  "It could be a birthday present for our newest family member." 

Our family member.  It was a terrifying and exhilarating notion when put in those words.  Or, any words really.  But, now that he was considering the idea, he was liking it more and more.  The album.  And, the kid, really.  But, right now, he was thinking more about the album.  As a present for the kid. 

"One of the tracks.  Sing with me on one of the tracks - it'd be fantastic.  And, if I could get a few others to sing on some of the other tracks.  Muggle and wizarding musicians!  Maybe even important figures.  Neville Longbottom - you think he'd agree?  Wouldn't that be splendid?  Voices of undersung heroes singing Colin's numbers."  He wouldn't let their manager touch the album - it would be his canvas, his creation.  And, he could release it with dedication to the newest Creevey.  Or Quinn?  Creevey-Quinn?  Quinn-Creevey?  Matilda Creevey?  Oh brother.  That, of course, was the main reason Dennis had refrained from informing his father and, especially, mother. 

"What disaster doesn't require an excess of alcohol?  It's like liquid nourishment with a side of happiness.  I can't think of anything better to have with you during a catastrophe."  He tried to look innocent and naive like he actually believed that answer to be whole and valid.  If it hadn't been for the playful smirk, he might have pulled it off as well.  Talking seemed as valid a way to cover up the grin, though, so he started counting off on his fingers.  "Floods - you can't drink the flood waters, after all. And anything fresh will go bad soon.  Alcohol's a great preservative, you know.  Drought - well - gotta drink something.  The end of time - if you've got to face it, facing it drunk seems better to me."  Both eyebrows journeyed up to his forehead as he peered down his nose at her, daring her to find fault in his logic. 

The Quinn penchant for fun and mischief, the Creevey inquisitiveness and desire to be in it all along with all the magic of a wizard.  They were creating a potential monster.  A wonderful, fantastic, potential monster.  "I can't wait to see what the little one does."  It seemed a lot like a first step or a first word.  A wizards first oddity.  And, unlike his parents, he'd know to be on the look out.  The first sign of

Dennis hesitated a moment.  Colin just wasn't a topic he frequented even though this was now the second time he'd broached it with Tilly in the last few months.  Ignoring those memories was just so much easier than dealing with them.  He plucked another veggie from his plate and munched it, quietly.  "Well, I guess it had been easier for me since, you know, Colin had already gone through it.  They had to figure it all out with him; then it all made sense for me.  So, I guess I officially knew when they found out about Colin.  When the school official brought him his letter."  Dennis reminisced.  "He'd be so thrilled to know Three Owl became official.  And us.  If he hadn't been so foolish."  Dennis shook his head, stuffing another piece of food in his mouth and chewing before taking a swig of beer.  Why was it eating and drinking were so good at distracting from emotions?

She wasn’t particularly bashful, and if Dennis would continue to think about it, with her encouragement (and her vocal help), then she was all for joining in. Her forehead pressed to his, she kissed him again when he called it a birthday present. Keyword birth. It was really going to happen! And what sweeter a way to be welcomed into the world? “All the kids in school will be jealous... by then the record will be as good as vintage.”

“One of the tracks, deal,” she agreed, pulling back just enough to see his whole face. Her face lit up as the ideas unraveled and spilled from his mouth. “Longbottom-- that’d be brilliant. He’s pretty progressive, isn’t he? I don’t see why he wouldn’t. You went through that war together.” Even if they’d rebelled in different ways, there was that common thread, fighting for Harry Potter’s cause. They had both lost loved ones, too.

She sighed, but delightedly so. “We could open a bar in our flood fortress, then. We’ll have a team of rowers picking up the patrons.” Why not afford a bit of laughter? Now wasn’t the time to bring up her worries about his drinking. Or was it? She bit her lip, wondering. Bottles and babies didn’t necessarily go together, but then neither did sobriety and rock stars. There was a balance, wasn’t there? A happy medium? “Do you think you’d...” How to word it? Better just to go for it. If the impending addition to their nest was in line with those catastrophic events, those methods of dealing with them might prove problematic. “Would you want to try not drinking with me? For a while? I could use a friend in this. Not to be a selfish cow.”

She grinned as he plunged into nostalgia, however delicately. She liked hearing these glimpses of the past, these bits of him she often had to guess. They’d still been kids when they met, of course, and she could fairly well imagine a younger Dennis. (The animated photographs helped, too. She was grateful his brother had gone through a wizarding photography phase before his artistic nature turned him to music.) “I’m sure he’s watching from somewhere,” she chanced. “Proud of you, no doubt. Proud of Corby, even,” she teased. Corby was a lovely soul, and an adorably convenient scapegoat for such banter. Bless him. They’d have to make him godfather, at the very least. The idea of Uncle Corby floated into Tilly’s head, however, and she burst into random laughter. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she shook her head. “Sorry,” she murmured.

The deal was slowly becoming sealed in Dennis' mind.  Probably, a firewhiskey-infused brainstorm session with Corby would have to transpire before the deal was truly, fully sealed.  As brainstorm sessions usually amounted to a a rather tipsy late night romp through The Green Indoor Mini-Golf in Lewisham, Dennis was already looking forward to it.  He might be approaching this endeavor as a solo (not Three-Owl-Standards) one but, really, the pint-sized Creevey in Tilly's abdomen was probably the only project Dennis had embarked upon without Corby. 

Apparently, 'birthday gift' had been the right choice of words if the kiss was anything to go on.  "I love it," he admitted when she sat back again, nodding his head.  He was being truly honest.  It was a brilliant idea.  Brilliant enough to grant Dennis' euphoria the moment to coast across the You went through the war together comment with only a moment's hesitation.  With the aid of another piece of broccoli delivered to his mouth, he hoped the emotional hiccup had gone unnoticed. 

Even broccoli, as saucy as it was, couldn't have masked his reaction to Tilly's request.  It had so successfully snuck up on him, a wolf draped in the sheep's skin of her floating bar fortress humor, that he'd almost missed it.  Suddenly, Dennis knew he was in hostile territory.  Better watch it, mate.  Those preggo hormones turn women into emotional banshees, you know.  You're best off agreeing with everything and never, ever, ever ask a pregnant woman if she's serious.  She'll tear you open and eat your guts to nourish your brood..  Where Corby had earned his wisdom, Dennis hadn't a clue.  As far as he Dennis knew, if he'd gotten any women pregnant he was, as of yet, unaware.  Dennis just wasn't sure what preggo hormones the man had been around to have become the Wise Sage of Expectant Mothers.  But, right now, Dennis was grateful.  Even if it meant simply staring at Tilly rather than a (foolish), you're kidding, right?

Think fast!  And, no.  He couldn't ask for a time out to call Corby for help. 

"Try?"  In the high tight rope of the question, that simple word was his safety net.  If agreed and failed, that word would catch his fall.  Before agreeing or refusing, he quickly reached out and griped his beer, chugging it back like it was the stolen nectar from the fountain of youth and he needed to get rid of the evidence before he was caught with it.  "I -" He started, trying not to cough as the words gripped the side of his throat, like Calvin clinging desperately to the door frame while his mother was shoving him to the school bus.  Of course, there was only one answer.  Even he'd slap himself if he told himself no.  And he wasn't pregnant.  "Yes.  I can try.  It ... It can't be that bad."  Who was he kidding?  Corby was going to taunt him for the next ... however long.  When was this thing coming?  Next week, hopefully.

"I don't know," Dennis shrugged, shaking his head.  That whole after death thing was still rather fuzzy to him.  He preferred ignoring it over coming to some weird conclusion.  "Maybe.  He was the surprising one, though.  You know?  It never occurred to me he'd go back. I assumed he was just hiding somewhere like me.  Safe."  No.  That had been Dennis.  Colin - he'd gone to Hogwarts and had fought.  Dennis wasn't sure if, to this day, his parents understood the significance of his brother's sacrifice.  No one talked about it.  Or, they just knew Dennis preferred not to.  "I don't know what possessed him."